


White Tail

by lovetincture



Category: Hannibal (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Consent Issues, Episode: s07e17 The Born-Again Identity, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25680559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Maybe he really is dreaming. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe pigs will fly, Leviathans will die, and the world will finally decide to be kind to them all.Fat fucking chance.
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	White Tail

**Author's Note:**

> A missing scene from 7x17 if Marin was Abigail. I saw Kacey Rohl in the episode, and I just couldn't resist.

He sees her through the almighty haze of sleep deprivation. At first, he’s not sure if she’s real. Everything’s started to go fuzzy around the edges, details getting lost as his mind eats itself up from the inside. Lucifer likes to shake things up and put on different skins, from time to time.

She’s pretty, he notices first. Pretty and young, wide blue eyes set in a milk-pale face. His eyes flicker down to the gauze bandage taped across her neck, almost the same shade as her skin. He wonders if her pallor owes more to too many days spent indoors in a locked ward unable to see the sun, or to blood loss. He doesn’t ask.

She’s skittish, he notices, but only in retrospect. She turns and walks quickly in the opposite direction when he can’t stop flinching at every loud firecracker Satan sets off. The flash of her retreating, hospital-issued pajamas reminds him strangely of white-tailed deer.

He sets his heavy head back down on the pillow. It’s suddenly too much work to hold it up.

* * *

Everything is soft here—soft, because no one wants the crazies to hurt themselves. Soft clothes, soft slippers, soft bed that smells of bleach and industrial cleaners. Soft head that can’t grasp onto the particulars. People come to talk to him—doctors, nurses. They take his blood pressure, give him medication, deliver food, purse their lips when they ask how he’s sleeping and all he’s got to answer is a grimace and a few tired excuses.

He’s having trouble with the  _ now _ of it all—is this the sandwich from lunch or the one he had when he was twelve? Is Lucifer here or is Sam in the cage—is this a dream they’re having?

A dream would require an iota of sleep, and he’s been getting none of that, so maybe not a dream.

He’s read things about sleep deprivation, not recently, but before. He remembers reading about it in college, during a late night Google session of following the Wikipedia rabbit hole down and down. There was something about micronaps. After a certain point, your body won’t let you stay awake. It’ll get its sleep however it can, prying it piecemeal from the jaws of consciousness. He doesn’t remember the particulars of that either. They skitter away like so many marbles when he tries to grab onto a solid fact, but. Micronaps. He remembers micronaps.

Maybe that’s what’s happening to him, maybe he really is dreaming, maybe he’s asleep. Maybe pigs will fly, Leviathans will die, and the world will finally decide to be kind to them all. Fat fucking chance.

Her name is Abigail. He likes the soft way it rolls off his tongue. He remembers Abigail because she’s the only thing in here that isn’t soft. She’s sharp around the edges, flinty eyes with a core of ice, something hard to the set of her sensitive lips. They quiver when she’s scared. Sam knows he scares her. He thinks that should bother him, but he’s just too tired.

She comes back with another candy bar, and he doesn’t bother telling her that it won’t fix the problem, that the problem isn’t the food, it’s the company. He takes it in shaky hands and says thank you.

“Don’t mention it,” Abigail says.

“Ooh,” Lucifer says from the corner. “She  _ likes _ you.”

“So what’re you in for?” she asks.

“I hear—” Sam gestures vaguely. “Voices.”

“Ah.” She nods. “Sounds spooky.”

Does it? His compass for spooky is so far off normal.

Sam shrugs. “It’s more just—like someone left the TV turned all the way loud, and I lost the remote control. And none of the knobs work. I’m tired.”

“Me too.”

“Aw,” Lucifer interjects. “She’s trying to relate. Isn’t that just  _ adorable, _ Sam? Huh? Huh, isn’t it?”

Sam squints his eyes shut tight, and when he opens them again, Lucifer is still making lewd gestures over Abigail’s right shoulder. “Yeah, uh—” He forgets what they were talking about. There go those marbles again. “What’re you. What’re you in for?”

It strikes him as a rude question, but he’s fucking tired, and anyway, she asked first.

“My dad tried to murder me.”

“Oh. Huh.”

The moment stretches out between them, silent and awkward and pregnant.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how sorry you are? Everybody else does.” She says it like an indictment.

“Do you want me to?”

She smiles, a quick, wry twist of her lips. “Not really.”

“Okay. Do you want half of this candy bar?”

“Nah, I’m not hungry.”

She flits out of the room as breezily as she came, and Sam stares for a while when she goes.

“Oh, she really likes you,” Lucifer says from the corner.

* * *

It’s been so long since Sam had a friend that wasn’t family—one that wasn’t Dean or Bobby, or even… whatever it was that Cas was, exactly. He’s almost forgotten how it goes.

Lucifer’s spent the last hour enumerating the ways Dean’s probably died in the time that he’s been gone. Sam’s flat on his back counting the number of holes in the ceiling. It’s a trypophobic nightmare in here.

“Crowley’s still out there, you know. Whew, I bet he’s getting sick of you. It wouldn’t take much, would it? To get the drop on Dean these days—not with him all alone and you out of commission, dying slow. You know how easy it would be to cut the brake line in that gas-guzzler you two insist on polluting the environment in? Two seconds, just two seconds and—”

There’s the sound of a soft knock at the door, the squeak of badly-oiled hinges and soft, barely-there footsteps in soft, barely-there slippers. Abigail is at the door, and both Sam and Lucifer look up in unison, heads swiveling toward a fall of dark hair.

“Hi,” she says. “Bad time?”

“Is there ever a good time?” Sam asks, but he pushes himself up with a groan, the most he’s bothered to move all day.

“How’s the,” she makes a vague gesture. “Voices?”

“Loud and clear.” He tries a smile, but it might come out a grimace. “How’s the attempted murder recovery?”

She makes a face. “Itchy.”

She takes the chair in the corner, and Lucifer promptly vacates it, holding up his hands in a  _ so-rry princess _ pantomime. Sam’s seen that gesture a hundred times on Dean. The resemblance is unsettling. Sam does his best to ignore it.

Sam watches Abigail through heavy-lidded eyes. He’s unable to fall asleep, but he can’t quite manage to stay awake either. Abigail hasn’t brought candy today. Her hands find the hem of her shirt and fiddle with it instead.

“Do you have family waiting for you out there?” Sam asks, jerking his head fractionally toward the window.

He figures she must. She looks… wholesome. Clean. She looks like there’s someone out there who loves her, probably several someones. He tells himself he doesn’t feel jealous about that. It’s not so much that he wants the answer as that he wants Abigail to keep talking. Lucifer’s quiet when she does. Say what you want about the devil, at least he’s polite.

Sam laughs at his own joke, a rasping huff of a thing, and Abigail tilts her head in an unasked question, her eyes wary.

Sam shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s just the crazy talking.”

Abigail nods, seemingly satisfied. So many things are simpler here, in the land of the crazies. Up is down, and you can talk about the voices in your head while you sit across from a girl with thirty stitches in her neck. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy.

She shakes her head. “Just me.” She shrugs it off like it doesn’t matter and gives Sam a devil-may-care smile. The devil does care, is the issue. Lucifer clucks and coos over her. Sam’s eyes are caught on the fish hook edges of Abigail’s expression, the way he can see the cracks that point to the way she might one day crumble. “Dad—my dad got my mom. Before he got me. Tried to. It’s just me now.”

Sam swallows against the lump in his throat. His eyes burn, but maybe that’s just the sleep deprivation talking. He thinks marbles. He thinks micronaps.

She doesn’t want sympathy, but life is all getting things you don’t want. She’ll have to learn it sometime. “I’m sorry,” he says.

She purses her lips.

“I have a brother,” Sam says, although she doesn’t ask. “His name is Dean.”

Abigail nods, curt. “Dean,” she tries out the name. “Must be nice.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

There’s something cracked, something fundamentally cracked in him, that he’s holding his brother in front of a cut orphan locked in a mental ward. That he feels proud and smug and a little relieved, glad to have something that nobody else does.

“That’s cold,” Lucifer says, “Even for you.”

I’m entitled, Sam thinks. God, gimme a break. He’s not paying enough attention.

Abigail says, “Do you wanna?” and Sam says “What.”

“Do you wanna?” she asks, fingering the edges of her shirt hem, pulling it up so he can see an inch of creamy pale skin stretched over taut hip bones, right above the elastic of her hospital-issue stretch pants. “You’re cute,” she says, coming close enough that Sam can smell her clean hair, the scent of industrial soap all over her. “You’re nice, and I’m sad. C’mon, give me something. It’s okay.”

“Abigail, I’m old enough to be your—” he doesn’t finish that sentence. He doesn’t know how it was going to end.

She steps into his space and winds her arms around his neck. He means to push her away, but his hands land on her hips and grip tight like they know what to do.

She kisses him soft and light, hesitant and fluttery. She kisses like a goddamn teenager, and fuck, he’s going to hell for this.

Lucifer is crowing like it’s his birthday and he just got the best present. “Attaboy, Sammy, you lady-killer you. Robbing the fucking cradle, am I right?”

Sam pulls his mouth away from Abigail. He breaks his own rule. “Oh my god, shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

“Shh,” Abigail says. She kisses down the side of his jaw, down to his throat, lays her mouth down and latches on. She gives him a hickey to match the gash healing on the side of her neck, and Sam bucks up into it.

“Shh, it’s alright.”

“He won’t stop talking,” Sam moans.

“It’s okay,” Abigail says. She worms her hand into the fabric of his pants. She grips him tight and pumps him once, twice. “It’s okay. I don’t mind if he watches. What the hell, right?”

Sam groans. She pushes his pants down around his hips. His cock springs free from the elastic, bobbing obscenely in the air. He can smell the both of them, the scent of sex already heavy in the room. He glances at the unlocked door, the fucking  _ viewing window. _ This is the craziest thing he’s ever done, and he thinks  _ good thing I’m already here. _

Abigail shucks her pants, quick and practiced. She pushes him down on the bed and climbs on.

“What’s he saying?” she asks.

Sam shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.”

She kneels over him, her legs spindly and pale. For a wild second, he thinks it’s impossible that such fragile things can hold her up. She reaches down between them and grabs his dick, guides it to her entrance with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. She holds it steady as she sinks down, inch by slow, steady inch.

His breath is punched out of him in a rush, and she makes a small noise when she takes him all the way to the bottom.

She shakes her head. “I do so want to know.” She rises up on her knees and sinks back down, shuddering a little. Sam grabs her hips again. “I want to know every terrible thing.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s worse if you don’t see it coming.”

He groans. He can’t say he disagrees.

She rides him slow, barely making any noise at all. She puts her hands on his chest and leans forward. The weight of her feels good, like it’s tethering him to the ground, like anything at all could. He lifts his hips and does his best to help, navigating by her breathing—what makes it come quick and sharp, what makes it push from her nose in a long, slow exhale.

The only sound in the room is the quiet squeaking of industrial bedsprings and the slick, wet sound between them.

“He tells me I’m going to die,” Sam says at last. “He tells me terrible stories, and most of them are true.”

“Do you see him right now?”

“Yes,” Sam shudders.

She doesn’t ask any more questions.

Abigail’s looking at him, wide-eyed and knowing and way too damn old for a teenager, when he comes. He doesn’t know if she does.

She climbs off him all the same, crawling her way to the edge of the bed and setting her feet back on the cold tile floor. He can see the glistening trail of wetness between her thighs. He doesn’t know if she’s on the pill—if they took it away from her when she came in here if she was. They probably did.

The curve of her skin is smooth and unmarked when she bends down to pick up her discarded pants. She looks like she doesn’t have a single scar on her, besides the one she’ll carry for the rest of her life. It seems like a damn shame.

She pulls her pants back on, covering up the reddened muddle left by his hands on her skin. The imprint will fade quick as blood, leaving no trace. He thinks campsite rule. He thinks deer.

“Do you want to, uh, stay? For a while?” He winces as the words leave his mouth.

“Nah.” She smiles a little, that same smile, still sad around the edges.

“Okay.”

There are a dozen things they could say to each other, probably. It doesn’t seem worth the effort, on either end. He’s so damn tired, and she’s looking for something that isn’t him. He’s suddenly so fiercely glad for Dean that it takes the wind out of him.

Sam rolls over onto his side, back to the door. He hears it quietly open and close. Hears little barely-there footfalls receding down the hallway. He thinks deer.

Lucifer blares cock rock and lights firecrackers, and Sam gets no sleep at all.

**Author's Note:**

> You can say hello on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture).


End file.
